She’s writing stories. And they are about a 4 on a scale of 1 to 10. A generous ranking for quality, but underexaggerated for effort. She’s getting free therapy.
My language teaching (? not the right word, but I’m sleepy) continues. A stranger, not affiliated in any way with my workplace nor aware of my recent journey with language teaching (there’s that wrong word again), has asked me to help his Czechlosevakian (Did I spell that write?) wife learn to speak proper English. Exciting! And fun! What is happening??
And I’m moving soon. We bought a house. Finally.
My vacation seems to be running its course without my usual spontaneity. I certainly can’t complain, though my inspiration to write the me that has always shown up on this white screen is a little wobbly. I feel that didn’t make sense. It’s late, and I’m half awake. She’ll resurface. She’s sensibly inspired. She’s writing stories.
All is well.